They checked into the motel very late into the night, after torching a pack of revenants in a newly abandoned house on the outskirts of a backroads town somewhere in Illinois, because where-fucking-else would a pack of revenants - creatures which are rare and solitary, by the way- be gathering in groups and terrorizing people, except in a backroads town in fucking Illinois.
Dean wondered whether they could get away with just surrounding the whole entire midwest with salt-filled iron bars and silver nails. Samuel Colt did it with Wyoming, why can't they? He grumbled the idea to Sam while wiping ectoplasm off his jacket before getting into the car. Sam, who was wringing ectoplasm from his hair, actually looked like he was also considering it.
They've been on the road with three back-to-back hunts in a space of a week. Before this hunt was a wendigo in Iowa. Right before that was a vampire coven in Wisconsin. They'd been running on almost 48 hours with barely any sleep and unholy amounts of caffeine. The plan was to haul ass right back to Kansas before they get snagged with another case. But neither of them really had the energy to make the 8-hour straight drive without accidentally running the car off the road and into a cornfield, which, with their luck, would probably end up with them encountering a possessed herd of cows that would need ganking.
So crashing in the motel, it is.
By the time he got done showering off the gunk and using up all the remaining hot water to soothe his bruised muscles and aching back (a stupid revenant threw him through a table and almost off a balcony. Sam only just managed to catch him by the sleeve of his jacket, leaving Dean dangling up in midair and swearing up a blue streak because son of a bitch, we're getting too old for this shit, Sammy, what the fuck are we doing? Sam just grunted, pulled him up, and finished the damn incantation, while Dean leapt up to his feet again and shot the offending revenant full of rock salt in the face before it disappeared in a blaze), he was about ready to faceplant into one of the beds and sleep for the next thirteen years.
Dean was tired; it was the kind of exhaustion that sometimes seeped into his bones and injected lead into his marrows, making his feet feel like they weigh a ton each. There was a hollowness in his chest, a persistent ache that twinges when he breathes. It only happens after particularly grueling or abnormally long hunts. He figures it's his body screaming its displeasure at the string of back to back hunts they've been marathoning like it's going out of style.
He got out of the bathroom, toweling his hair with a hand that weigh more like cinder blocks, and just appreciated the fact that he can stand still for a moment and not have to rush off for the next hunt.
He remembered a time when he used to live for the adrenaline, always on the ready. Now, he was willing to trade one of his kidneys for his actual bed back at the bunker. Having a permanent address had really made them soft.
Sam was sitting on the desk, hunched over his laptop, typing up a storm. They'd developed a system of keeping records of their hunts and putting them up in a database, like a modern hunter's journal that they can use to cross-reference cases with, and something that other hunters can access for information. Dean liked old-fashioned pen and leather-bound journals, but there's a lot to be said about not having to riffle through pages when you can just press a few keys to find what you're looking for.
Sam's back was wide like the rest of him. Strong. Steady. And Dean was suddenly filled with a deep need for connection.
His feet moved, and before he could even think about it, he was already bending down and resting his forehead on Sam's broad back. He felt Sam tense a bit in surprise.
Dean knew why, of course. The only form of affectionate touching they're used to were desperate hugs after the brink of (or after) dying, and the occasional teasing back slaps. They've never really been the touchy-feely type of family. But right now, the warmth of his brother's back - the one person he had by his side the longest - seeped into his bones, chasing away the hollow ache and making him feel... mellow. He let out a sigh.
"Dean?"
He could feel Sam's voice vibrating through his back, and it made Dean want to smoosh his face harder into the flannel. Just burrow and sleep for a hundred years on Sam's back. He's sure Sam wouldn't mind.
"I'm tired, Sammy," he mumbles.
He could feel Sam's heartbeat, strong and steady. Comforting.
"Okay, Dean," Sam said, relaxing. Dean could hear the smile in his voice, the amusement at his uncharacteristic behavior; and a silent reassurance, like he would stay rooted on the spot as long as Dean wanted him to.
They could grow roots and just stay here, Dean thinks muzzily, just the two of them, and maybe Cas, wherever he is, can perch on top of their branches and get some rest from flying, too. Just the three of them, and the rest of the world can go to hell as long as it leaves them alone.
He breathed in the smell of sweat and gunpowder, the tang of salt and blood, a mixture that screams brother , and home , and safe.
"Hey Dean."
"Mmph."
"If you used up all the hot water, I'll kick your ass."
"You can try, bitch."
"Jerk."